interestingish writing exercise below cut.
I have been tempted to scenify by my intriguing prompt book, “The 3 A.M. Epiphany.” this particular one was to describe a scene through synesthasia, which is handy because I happen to have a character who can taste sound. so, p. weird, and I apologize if I have misrepresented what this condition would be like, please educate me otherwise if it is wrong because I want to get this right!
onward.
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I awaken to the gentle honey of a perfect sunrise. The neurowalls lift daylight around me. I tense each muscle down my abdomen until I pull myself up with infinite slowness. When I am sitting straight, the morning is fully upon my room.
A tinkle tasting of wild oats lures me to the kitchen without a robe. I pour a glass of water first and stand at the sink, watching the apple tree out my window. Two birds flicker from branch to branch. “Sound up,” I say, my own voice cuing a distant ocean in my throat, and the window thins to let the birdsong in.
They sweeten the morning like lemon butter as I slide to the sink and turn on the water. Oats sift headily into the metal pot, followed by the water, a bit bitter. Stirring with a wooden spoon produces a complimenting flavor. The salt is silent, or at least I can’t hear it when I add my orange whistle to the birds’.
I rest my hand against the panelulum and set it swinging. A tasteless, odorless voice leaks through the walls as I move into the bathroom. “You have two messages. One is from Lhaleen. One is from Hesh.”
I turn on the water and pinch off two mint leaves from the plant beside the sink. The mirror ripples and displays the house avatar: an equally bland face to match the voice. “Would you like me to read your messages?”
“Open Lhaleen’s.” Her name is like a young wine. I rub the mint into my skin.
“Of course.” The avatar ripples away and I can see my face again. I scritch away the hazelnutty hairs with a sharpened blade and rinse them away while the voice reads.
“Tamlin comma. I’m feeling awfully bloaty and need a good workout. I’m in town for a few, want to catch the tube to the gym? Yours comma. Lhaleen.”
I put toothpaste to my tongue. “She’s so charming. Say yes, but blunt enough that she’s worried when she gets here.”
The avatar withdraws completely from the mirror to back to its servers and think. Meanwhile, I dab my face dry and go for the soft dayrobe hung on the bathroom door. It settles onto my skin with a soft blueberry sigh.
I left the window open, and the birds chatter at each other over their nestbuilding—a domestic dispute, nettles and thyme. My oatmeal bubbles on the stove and eagerly quicksands the brown sugar I sprinkle over the top. The water is almost absorbed, voicing wet-rag anger at its assimilation.
A playful spring breeze wafts through the window, tickling the edges of my dayrobe. I pull the fabric closer and pour a glass of milk, anticipating the sweet fat at the sound. Milk: the first taste of life, one of the few material things that rings true across the senses. Milk is milk is milk. It tastes like security, smells like it, looks like it (solid and present).